Tramp in Armour

by Colin Forbes

  'What the devil's going on here?'

  Three bodies spun round to face him, then froze. The Corsican was the first to recover and he came forward a few paces, smiling as he said something in French.

  'Talk in English,' snapped Barnes.

  The Corsican made a show of not understanding. Jabbing forward his pistol, Barnes rasped out the words.

  'Get your hands up or I'll cut you to pieces.'

  The Corsican shot up his hands, saying something quickly over his shoulder, and three more pairs of hands jumped above shoulder level.

  'I'm glad you speak English,' Barnes commented. 'Who are you? Come on - be quick about it.'

  'Joseph Lebrun, sir. Fur salesman from Le Cateau.'

  'What's the name of this place?'

  'Beaucaire, sir. You are the British Army?'

  'The advance guard. That road which comes into the town from the west - where does it lead to?'

  'To Cambrai. Arras is beyond.'

  God, Barnes was thinking, we're miles farther south than I'd thought. He stepped back several paces because Lebrun was showing a tendency to edge closer. He kept his voice crisp and hard.

  'Stay where you are. Lebrun, how close are the Germans?'

  'They have gone.' Lebrun looked astonished. 'They passed through here several days ago soon after the first bombing...'

  'Soldiers in trucks, you mean?'

  'No nothing like that. It was a long column of huge tanks, enormous guns.'

  'But no soldiers in trucks?' Barnes repeated.

  'No, nothing like that.' He stared at the machine-pistol, frowning. 'That is a German gun?'

  He's quick, this one, Barnes warned himself, and probably treacherous. He kept the pistol aimed at Lebrun's stomach as he pressed home his cross-examination.

  'How long ago was this? You said several days ago - exactly how many days?'

  'Six or seven days since. We did not see them ourselves -we were told. We do not live here.'

  He stopped quickly and his face went blank as though he had said the wrong thing. Barnes went on talking quickly, determined to extract the maximum information from this gangster while he was still off-balance.

  'Lebrun, where are the Germans now?'

  'In Abbeville.'

  Barnes felt as though he had been rabbit-punched. If this were true the BEF and the French armies in the north would be severed from the main French armies to the south, a catastrophe without precedent during the whole of the First World War. Then he recovered. The so-and-so was lying, of course.

  'Abbeville's on the coast, Lebrun. Now try again and this time be a bit more careful.'

  'I tell you.' He became excited, waving his hands above his head. 'I tell you, they are in Abbeville - we met refugees who were from the town. The Germans tanks are everywhere. They have thousands of tanks and they are all over France.'

  'But not near here?'

  The squat man's eyes became cunning and he stared hard at Barnes before replying.

  'Only the big tank outside Beaucaire - on the roads towards Cambrai.'

  'A German tank, you mean? How far along the road outside Beaucaire?'

  'Seven or eight kilometres - we passed it on our way back here. It is there by accident, I am sure. It has broken down in a field and four soldiers are trying to make the repairs. They are working stripped to the waist like peasants. This was two hours ago.'

  'On which side of the road as you drive towards Cambrai?'

  'To the right, about half a kilometre from the road.'

  Barnes nodded and gave them instructions, forming them into a line spread out across the full width of the road with plenty of space between each man. Then he marched them back towards the square, halting at a side turning which led down to the road from the square, at the corner he made them lie down in the dust, flat on their stomachs with their arms stretched out full length, firing one burst from his machine-pistol into the air. The prone bodies jumped and he knew that for a brief second they had believed they were about to die. In the distance he heard the throb of Bert's engines and he fired a second short burst, bringing the tank round the corner. Only Lebrun plucked up the courage to look over his shoulder as the tank pulled up.

  'Who are these birds?' inquired Penn from the turret.

  'Looters.' Barnes spat out the word. 'While their own chaps are trying to hold off Jerry this lot goes round scavenging. There's a bus-load of the stuff up the road.'

  'How did you catch on?'

  'Bony-Face was wearing some of it. He's wearing a filthy old suit but the tie and the shoes don't go with it - to say nothing of the gold watch.'

  He ordered Penn to stay in the turret while Reynolds searched the four men. From Lebrun and one of the thin men the driver extracted two pistols, German 9-mm Luger pistols, and when Barnes asked where they had obtained these Lebrun explained that they had taken them off two dead German soldiers they had found lying beside a crashed motor-cycle and side-car. Barnes made no comment on the fact that only German officers were armed with Luger pistols and he left Penn to guard the four men while he walked back to the bus with Reynolds.

  The seats of the bus were littered with a variety of loot which included a glass case containing old gold coins and Barnes was burrowing deeper into the strange cargo when he heard Reynolds give a whoop. The driver had thrown out of the door the hunting rifle, the silk curtains, the little chair and silver tray when he called out. Barnes looked up.

  'Found some champagne?'

  'Yes, for Bert!'

  He was holding a heavy rectangular can and had taken off the cap while he examined the contents. Replacing the cap, he carried it off the bus and put it down on the roadside as though it were a fragile glass vase. Then they began searching the bus ruthlessly, finding more cans of the precious diesel fuel which they carried to the roadside. Within five minutes Reynolds had arranged twenty cans in a neat row and still Barnes found it hard to believe their good luck. Bert ran on diesel fuel and possibly the only vehicle in northern France which used this was a bus. Reynolds stood guard over the cans as though he were afraid they might walk away, his voice almost purring.

  'They must have pinched the bus from a depot, so they pinched plenty of spare fuel to go with it.'

  'You can load up Bert now, but get a move on.' While Reynolds was carrying the cans back to the tank Barnes made a further search of the bus and when his fingers pressed through a coverlet he felt bottles underneath. At least not only Bert would have plenty to drink. Ripping away the coverlet he found a dozen bottles of mineral water: clearly, Mr Lebrun liked to dilute his wine. And underneath the last two mineral waters he found the jackpot - a half-bottle of Five Star Bisquit cognac.

  He carried his own treasures back to the tank and the four men were still lying sprawled in the blazing sun while Penn mounted guard over them from the turret. Reynolds was humming to himself as he fussed about the tank, lifting back the engine cover, removing the cap and inserting the large tin funnel which he used to fill up with diesel. As he poured in the precious liquid he was taking as much pleasure over the operation as if he were enjoying a five-course dinner himself. They had almost completed the loading operation when Lebrun couldn't stand it any longer. Lifting his head cautiously, his face streaming with greasy sweat, he spoke over his shoulder, his tone of voice petulant. 'Please, sir...' 'What is it, Lebrun?'

  'Please leave us two or three of the containers for the bus.' 'Too late - we've poured it all in the tank.' Lebrun glared savagely and Barnes was startled by the look of bitter hatred in the squat man's eyes. He had his mouth open and between the thick lips several misshapen gold teeth showed. Barnes told him to get his head down, took a heavy wrench from the tool kit and went back to wreck the bus' engine. He smashed the motor systematically, putting it completely out of action. Lebrun wouldn't be using this bus again to plunder his own people and now there was no risk of the looters driving out of Beaucaire ahead of them to warn that German tank of Bert's existence. When he returned to the ta
nk Lebrun was settling his face back on the ground as Perm swore at him.

  'He's a sensitive soul,' Penn explained. 'The noise you were making was getting on his nerves.'

  'I wish you'd told me that - I'd have wrapped a cloth round the wrench.' Barnes' voice hardened. 'Lebrun, get on your feet. The others can get up, too.'

  Lebrun said something quickly in French and rose slowly to his feet, facing Barnes alongside bis companions, an expression of the utmost venom on his face. He's an ugly customer, this one, thought Barnes, but he can't do much without his Lugers. He spoke abruptly.

  'You can all push off now - that way, to the east. If we see any of you again we'll shoot.'

  'The Germans come from the east...' began Lebrun.

  'That's right. I doubt if they'll like you any better than we do. Get moving.'

  They followed the four men down the road in the tank and then halted after they had turned on to the highway which led westward. Amid the sunlit ruins they ate a quick meal and quenched their thirst with mineral water while Barnes pointed out their position on the map and outlined what the Corsican had told him. The news almost spoilt Perm's appetite.

  'The Germans in Abbeville!' The corporal looked stunned. 'You don't believe that, do you?'

  'With these Panzers roaming all over the place I'm not sure what to believe. I just hope he's wrong, that's all.'

  'We're heading for Cambrai first, then?'

  'It's in the right direction, if there is such a thing.'

  They talked about the problem - a single tank roaming behind the enemy lines, unaware of its position, because they couldn't be absolutely sure that this was Beaucaire, the Germans unaware of its presence - and then Barnes said it was time to move, but at the last moment he jumped down to the ground again. 'What's up?' inquired Penn, leaning out of the turret.

  'I'm going back to the bus - I forget to look in the tool box at the back and there may be something useful in it.'

  He left Penn standing in the turret, hurried back up the road, and turned the corner out of sight of the tank, the machine-pistol under his arm. As he reached the bus he glanced down at the pile of loot which Reynolds had thrown out and wondered why it looked different. Dismissing the thought as imagination, he boarded the bus and made his way to the back. All the windows were closed and it was appallingly hot and airless and there was a smell of wine. His foot kicked an empty bottle which rolled under a seat and he stiffened: the bottle hadn't been there when he left the bus. Inside the tool box he found a large wrench which he put in his pocket, still trying to work out how the bottle had appeared. He was leaving the bus when his glance fell again on the pile of loot strewn across the ground and a warning signal flashed in his brain. The rifle had gone.

  A sense of foreboding gripped him as he ran back towards the corner. Why take an old hunting rifle? Lebrun must have doubled back round the ruins while they were eating, must have found a bottle of wine, drunk it and made off with the weapon. He was midway to the corner when he heard the sound of a single report, one sharp crack, then an awful silence. He reached the corner and at first sight nothing appeared to be wrong: the tank was where he had left it and Penn was still in the turret, but as he ran closer Reynolds scrambled clear of the hatch and stood on the hull close to Penn who was no longer standing erect. When he reached them he saw that the driver was holding Penn up, his right hand sticky with blood. Penn spoke hoarsely, his face ashen.

  'Blighter got me in the shoulder ... Lebrun ... watch it -he's behind that building...'

  'Take it easy ...'

  Reynolds spoke quickly. 'It's all right, I can see to him.'

  Barnes ran across the rubble towards the stunted house from where he had first seen Lebrun and his gang, ran crouched low, bis eyes everywhere, the machine-pistol held forward in front of his stomach, his mind calculating and murderous. The house came closer and he watched both corners, watched a window which faced his approach, the only three points from which Lebrun could take him by surprise. As he ran he cursed himself for overlooking that rifle, but who would dream of checking an ancient weapon like that? Some idiot must have kept the damned thing loaded in his house and Lebrun had pinched it because of the silver-plated stock. He reached the house, crept round the outer walls, looked inside through a half-wrecked doorway, and saw the entire ground floor at one glance because the internal walls had collapsed, leaving only a stone staircase which led upwards past the still intact ceiling. On an impulse he stepped inside and carefully mounted the staircase which trembled under his footsteps. He emerged on to a flat roof, the floor of the upper storey which had vanished, and it gave him an all-round view over the rubble-strewn desolation behind the house, a region of large bomb craters. Inside one huge hole something flashed in the sunlight.

  Lebrun knew instantly that Barnes had spotted him and now he began to scramble to his feet, kicking up dust from the crater floor, shouting hysterically at the top of his voice as he lifted the rifle and waved it harmlessly. The silver on the stock flashed again and again in the sun. Was he saying that the rifle wasn't loaded, was he begging for mercy? Barnes neither knew nor cared. Without pity, without any real emotion, he lowered the muzzle of the machine-pistol, braced his legs and fired, sweeping the fusillade of bullets over the crater floor where they coughed up spurts of dust. Lebrun was on his feet and suddenly he jerked, then he fell over backwards and lay still. The bombed zone was terribly silent.

  Barnes pulled a face. His tank crew was now down to two men.

  FIVE

  Friday, May 24th

  Penn was in a bad way. Barnes only had to look at his face to tell that; a face which was normally pink and fresh was now the colour of grey mud and his eyes lacked life. He sat up on his seat inside the tank, a folded blanket behind his back, and Reynolds had just finished cleaning the wound which was in the right shoulder, a similar wound to Barnes', but in Perm's case the bullet had entered from the back instead of from above. Reynolds was just about to apply a field dressing but he waited while Barnes examined it. The driver constantly had to swab up fresh blood and Barnes wasted no time.

  'What's the verdict?' Penn asked weakly.

  'I've seen worse, much worse, and they survived.'-

  'I'm afraid I'm not much use at the moment...'

  'You will be, soon enough. Put the dressing on.'

  As Reynolds applied the dressing Penn stiffened his back against the blanket and took the bottle of cognac which Barnes had opened for him.

  'Just a few sips now - don't get greedy.'

  'Rationing me?' Penn managed the pale imitation of a smile.

  'You can have a stiffer tot, in a minute. Do you think you can stay in that seat when Bert's on the move?'

  'Course I can - anything to get away from this bloody hole: This place gives me the creeps. Did you get Lebrun? I heard...' He stopped and winced as Reynolds tightened the dressing.

  'Yes, he's dead. He took half a magazine in the guts.'

  'I should have seen him ... my fault...'

  'No, it isn't. There was no reason for you to think that he might be armed, or even come back at all for that matter.'

  'Anything in the tool box?'

  'A big monkey wrench - it will replace the one we lost at Etreux. We'll get you out of this beauty spot...'

  'Join the Army and see the world. Thanks, Reynolds, that's better. What was I saying? Oh, yes. The people you meet in this man's Army. When this is all over I'll publish my memoirs. You didn't know I was keeping a diary, did you, Sergeant?'

  'No,' lied Barnes.

  'Strictly against regulations. You'll have to put me on a charge. Three days' CB - confined to Bert. Looks as though I'll be confined to him anyway.'

  He laughed feebly and then stopped abruptly, his face cramping in a spasm of pain. Barnes handed him the cognac bottle again and told him to take several mouthfuls, watching him closely. The vital thing was for Penn to stay conscious until they got clear of Beaucaire. At least a little colour was flowing back into hi
s face as the alcohol penetrated his bloodstream. Reynolds gathered up a number of blood-soaked swabs and climbed out of the turret. Barnes didn't like the look of those swabs - Penn must have lost a lot of blood and among the swabs there had been two sodden field dressings, which meant that Reynolds had twice failed to stem the flow.

  'We'll be moving off now, Penn. I'll try and avoid the rough patches, but it won't be like driving along Brighton prom.'

  'Let's get on with it. We're heading for Cambrai?'